


The Reveal

by 221Books



Series: Book!verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Reichenbach, book porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:06:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3512912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Books/pseuds/221Books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected guest attends one of John's book signings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A bustling Saturday at a small bookshop in South London. It’s just after noon, and John Watson has been sitting at a table, signing books at a steady rate, for almost 3 hours now. The turnout isn’t huge, but it’s bigger than was expected. Fans of his book, _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes & Dr John Watson_, eagerly wait in line to have their copy signed by the now semi-famous, ex-army doctor, blogger, and former companion of Sherlock Holmes. His publicist, Mary, is usually with him at these events, helping with crowd control (not that there’s much of a crowd) and bringing him anything he may need. It’s not like this is John’s first book signing, and he’s certainly not a superstar who needs to be protected, but he finds comfort in the reassurance and extra hand Mary provides. She isn’t here this afternoon, though. She had had to leave unexpectedly to help a friend who was in crisis, so John is on his own.

John wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for Mary, and the sentiment applies in more ways than one.

Mary had followed John’s and Sherlock’s exploits in the news, and had read John’s blog, immediately recognising his talent as an author. After Sherlock’s suicide, she approached John, proposing that with her help, they turn his blog posts into a proper book - a way to combat the negative media, and show the world the kind of man Sherlock truly was. She gave John her name and contact information, and told him to think about it.

John had gone home that night and Googled her, finding her to be a literary agent with some well-received books under her belt. The next day, he called her, and agreed to write the book. It would be his way of exonerating the dead Consulting Detective. He might not have been able to save Sherlock that day, but maybe he could still save his reputation.

The entire process took just over a year, starting out merely as an idea that John flirted with, never actually thinking it would amount to anything.

There were plenty of times when John had wanted to quit, to just give up, to be done with the whole thing - frustrated with both the process and work involved with publishing, as well as his ever-present grieving over Sherlock. Revisiting these stories dredged up a lot of memories, some of which left him feeling lucky to have had the adventures and experiences he’d had, and others he’d rather forget entirely. These feelings fueled his need to get the stories out, to tell the world what kind of man Sherlock really was, but it was also a constant reminder of the events that had taken place to warrant such a need in the first place. A constant reminder of what John had lost - of _who_ he’d lost.

But Mary keeps him going. She’s always there for him, and always knows exactly what to say and what to do. She knows when to give John his space, and when to push him to get things done. She knows how important this is to him, and continues to do everything in her power to make sure John succeeds.

And just as Mary has gotten to know John, John got to know Mary. Their partnership started out as strictly business, but extensive hours spent together soon turned it into a close friendship, as they inevitably began sharing the details of their private lives with one another. Long nights spent together, eating take-away and going over manuscripts, traveling from place to place on publishing-related errands, and that extraordinary moment when together, they opened the box of finalised copies from the publisher, crisp and clean.

Then, one day, John is standing in a bookshop, looking at his own work on the shelves. An actual book, authored by him, sitting on shelves in bookstores across London and beyond. They were even selling. _If only Sherlock could see this_ , John thinks to himself, and it’s a bittersweet thought. If Sherlock were alive right now, it’s unlikely this book would exist at all.

It’s a dream come true for John. He just wishes it could have been under any other circumstances.

And it’s because of Mary that he’s here right now, in this chair, at this table. She had insisted book signings would help to promote both his book and his public image, get some curious fans out, and make some more sales. John wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but Mary had yet to steer him wrong, and after all the support she continues to provide him, he feels he owes her at least this.

One person in line, then another, and another. Sign the book, pose for a picture, as sincere a smile as John can compose, getting less sincere with every hour that goes by. Repeat. It’s as if he’s on autopilot. He’s lost track of how many times he’s signed his name, and how many other names he’s written. He’s losing what little enthusiasm he had to begin with. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the fans - he does, and he wants to make sure everyone has a positive experience - but this just isn’t his thing, and the monotony of it is driving him mad.

John signs books for a pair of young woman who are flirting with him so overtly, that he notices people in line roll their eyes. He’s begun to notice a pattern in the types of people who show up to his book signings. Many fans are unique unto themselves, but there’s also a regular parade of such stereotypical types that he feels like he could make a bingo card listing them. If he had, the ‘ _overly flirty woman who is half my age_ ’ square would be stamped right now. John signs one of the books as the first of the two women poses for a picture, which is taken by her friend. The friends switch places, and he signs the second book. Another picture. They both thank him, winking and blowing kisses as they leave. John shakes his head at the absurdity of it all. If he had approached either one of those women in a pub, and they didn’t know who he was, it would not have gone nearly as well.

The next person in line approaches the table, and John looks up at them. The action has become more of a polite reflex at this point in the day, rather than a sincere attempt at making a connection. John notices the man to be a plain enough looking bloke - nothing conspicuous about his appearance - and yet, something in John’s mind goes off. He’s suddenly stricken with the thought that there’s something very familiar about him. As far as he can tell, he’s never met him before, but then again his new-found status as an author has caused him to meet a lot of new people on a regular basis. Maybe he was at another book signing. There’s a handful of fans who have been to more than one, but John usually recognises them.

“Hello,” John says, and he’s surprised to hear a curious tone in his own voice. There is indeed _something_ about this person. Certainly nothing John senses to be malicious on the part of the person standing before him, but he feels like he should know, like his mind is hiding something from him. John can feel it, and he’s always been right to trust his gut.

The man slides a copy of John’s book in front of him, already open to the blank page at the front, ready to be signed.

“Ah. Ta,” John says. He looks down at the book, poised to write. “So, um, what’s your name? Anything specific you’d like me to write?” John looks up at the man again, pursing his lips as he tries to quell his mind and focus on the task at hand. The sun has come out from behind the clouds and shines through the skylight in the ceiling of the shop, casting the figure in front of him in shadow. John can only make out the silhouette, but it suddenly hits him that something about this figure reminds him of Sherlock. It wouldn’t be the first time John’s thought he’d seen Sherlock in a crowd, only to look again and see that it’s not, in fact, him. Sherlock is dead and buried at Camberwell Cemetery. It also wouldn’t be the first time someone has shown up at a book signing dressed as Sherlock, which they think is in good taste (John doesn’t agree, but he’s been surprisingly restrained about saying so). But this man doesn’t even look like someone dressed as Sherlock, and yet, there’s just _something_. John squints at the figure in front of him, the sun casting flares of light around his silhouette. All John can make out is a bulky parka, unzipped to show a scarf, casual button up plaid shirt, and a head covered by a flat cap that’s been pulled down low. Nothing at all like Sherlock.

“...said, the name’s Sigerson,”

John is shaken from his reverie, and realises he’s been staring blankly at the man, lost in his own thoughts. “Sorry… what?”

“My name. Sigerson. For the inscription.” The voice sounds familiar, but not quite _that_ familiar.

“Oh, right. Sorry,” John says, looking back down at the book. He writes ‘ _To Sigerson_ ’ near the top of the page. “Anything else you’d like me to add?” he asks. The sun has gone back behind the clouds now, and the shadow that’s hidden the details of this man is no longer there, but John doesn’t look up. He instead keeps his eyes on the page, ready to write the at the next request.

“Vatican cameos,” is all the stranger says, in a flat, monotone.

John is almost back on the autopilot routine he’s been practising all morning, and so he doesn’t realise it at first. He gets as far as writing ‘ _Vatican Cam_ ’ before the significance of the words click. He doesn’t recall mentioning Sherlock’s use of that particular phrase anywhere in his book or on his blog, so it’s extremely unlikely any of his fans are aware of it. He sits there, paused, hunched over the book, his mind frantically trying to come up with a reason for someone who is not Sherlock to be requesting these particular words. The ink from the marker bleeds into the page, spreading out in an ever-growing black spot.

“You know, John,” the voice above him starts in a tone that almost sounds disappointed, “you’re really very fortunate there isn’t any actual danger present. I hadn’t expected your reflexes to have diminished so much, nor so quickly.”

John hears now the much different and very familiar voice as if it’s a dream - a sort of disassociation from his present reality. He still doesn’t look up from the book. He senses the man remove his scarf and hat, casually tossing them down on the table, seeing them land, out of the corner of his eye. His mind is still trying to process what’s happening. The man removes his bulky parka, and tosses it on top of the hat and scarf. John turns his head to look at them. He bites his lower lip, then looks up at the man standing in front of him. There can now be no mistaking who it is. That trademark look of smugness and petulance that he dons whenever he has to explain something he thinks to be so obvious that everyone should already know it, while simultaneously thinking everyone except him is an idiot. Sherlock Holmes.

John is stunned. He slowly slumps back in his chair, as if he’s no longer physically capable of holding himself up. His hand goes slack, the marker falling to the side, and his jaw drops slightly. He stares at Sherlock, completely dumbfounded. He doesn’t believe his eyes. That’s it, he thinks. It’s finally happened. He’s lost his mind.

There’s a murmur as people in line start to whisper, unsure of what’s happening, trying to get a better look at the scene currently taking place at the front of the line.

John is about ready to get up and walk away, to get some air and clear his mind of what is clearly some sort of vivid hallucination brought on by hours spent signing books, when the woman in line behind Sherlock begins to get impatient.

“Oi!” she starts, tapping Sherlock hard on the shoulder, so he knows her speech is directed at him. She’s a petite woman in her late forties, dressed in an outfit of matching mauve outerwear, and what John assumes to be equally hideous clothing underneath. She clutches John’s book to her chest possessively. “I don’ know what your problem is, young man, but some of us ‘aven’t got all day to be waiting in line. You’ve ‘ad your turn, now move along.” What she lacks in height she certainly makes up for in audacity.

Sherlock, not missing a beat, spins around on his heels to face her. “I’m not sure who you’re speaking on behalf of, but it certainly isn’t yourself. The only thing you have yet to do today is to go home and talk to your twelve cats, who, I might add, are a poor substitute for human interaction, though I can hardly blame you for preferring them,” Sherlock snaps, scowling at the people in line as he says the last part.

It’s at that moment that John realises he’s not lost his mind. This woman can see this man, and this man is most definitely Sherlock Holmes. There can’t possibly be another human being on this planet with this particular combination of total disregard for others, inflated ego, and flair for the dramatics, as to pull something like this. John is incredulous. He slowly collects himself, standing up from where he was moments ago slack in his chair. His whole body is stiff, the tension building in him like a spring under increasing pressure, with every smug, selfish, egotistical, flippant thing that comes out of Sherlock’s mouth. His hands are balled in fists at his sides, and his jaw is clenched as if to attempt to keep the anger that’s boiling up inside him from exploding out. “Sherlock,” John says under his breath, fuming.

“Look at you lot. All spending your time with _this_ ,” Sherlock continues, addressing the patrons in line as he motions to the stack of John’s books, “poorly written, romanticised, embellish _drivel_. For your information, John missed the point entirely on most of these cases, and the ones that he didn’t-”

“Sherlock,” John says again, louder and more demanding.

“-are only correct because I fed him most of the relevant data, as he wasn’t present and therefore didn’t have enough information to embellish it for the sake of entertainment.”

“Sherlock!”

“What is it, John? Can’t you see I’m-”

It’s at that moment when Sherlock turns to face him that John lunges over the table like a spring suddenly released from high tension. Sherlock is caught completely off guard as John grabs him by his shirt front, balling it in his fists. He can’t remember the last time he’s been this angry. Whatever Sherlock was about to say instead comes out as a huff as John knocks the wind from him. Sherlock falls backwards, onto the floor, taking John with him, and the people in line scatter to get out of their way.

They roll around on the floor, John in a blind rage, and Sherlock still trying to catch up with what’s happening. John curses Sherlock through clenched teeth, his threats and angry shouts are almost unheard over the commotion of the signing table and various store displays crashing down as they knock into them, unaware of anything but each other as they wrestle. John throws punches, and uses his knees and feet to lash out at Sherlock, his aim and competency hampered by his sheer blind rage. The attacks are inaccurate, but certainly not ineffective. Sherlock, for his part, only tries to protect himself from the continued assault.

They come to an abrupt stop, John straddling Sherlock’s chest, his hands around Sherlock’s throat. “You _bastard_ ,” John seeths.  

“Now, John, just…” Sherlock doesn’t fight. Instead he puts his hands up in front of his face as a show of surrender. This has already escalated much faster and further than he had planned. His only goal now is to verbally placate John enough to get the situation under control, but for once he finds himself lost for words. He has to do something before John kills him, which doesn’t seem like a far-off likelihood considering John’s hands are currently locked tightly around Sherlock’s throat. He grabs John’s wrists, trying to wrench his hands away.

“Three years, Sherlock. Three _bloody_ years!”

Sherlock feels flecks of spit hit his face as John enunciates his words. He flails his legs, but it’s useless. His attempts at being passive are not proving at all successful, and John is showing no signs of letting up. Sherlock decides he needs to fight back.

By now the store staff are watching the chaos, standing with those who were previously in line, as well as other customers who have joined the crowd. They all look on in disbelief. No one knows what to do. People are on their mobiles, taking video and most likely posting about the event to social media sites.

“Hey! Over here!”

John looks up towards the crowd to where the shout came from, and there’s a flash of a camera. His momentary distraction is just what Sherlock needs.

Sherlock takes this chance to gain the upper hand, using the diversion and their combined weight to his advantage, he flips them over so that he’s now straddling John. He sits heavily on John’s torso, trying to hold John still, prepared to protect himself from continued attacks

They’re both beginning to tire.

“John, if you would just…” Sherlock struggles to keep John under control, as he watches his face and body language for signs of the next attack. “...calm down, for a moment, and I can explain…”

John’s body stills for a moment at Sherlock’s suggestion to ‘just calm down’. His eyes grow wide. “You…” he says with a renewed energy and rage. “You!”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, and Sherlock can read it loud and clear on John’s face. He’s managed to make things even worse. He slackens a bit, a maddening desperation on his face as he tries to think, thoroughly disappointed in how this is turning out.

John feels Sherlock slacken, and with one swift move he hasn’t used in quite some time, he manages to flip them back over, regaining power. With one hand around Sherlock’s throat, John goes up on his knees, drawing his shoulder back, ready to give Sherlock one last good punch, right to his face. His rage has hit its peak, and he’s not thinking beyond the years of betrayal and heartbreak this man has caused him. As John leans forward, he feels Sherlock stop fighting him completely, and instead tense up, bracing himself for the coming blow. It’s at that moment that John’s senses catch up with him, and he realises what’s happening. One hand still around Sherlock’s throat, and his arm still drawn back, he looks at the man on the ground. Sherlock Holmes. _Alive_. John hears his own heavy breathing and rapid heartbeat loud in his ears. He takes a quick sidelong glance at the crowd. Everyone is still, in anticipation of what’s to come.

Suddenly, a hand grabs at his shoulder, forcefully pulling him off Sherlock. John stands up abruptly, irritatingly shrugging the hand off. He looks down at Sherlock, who slowly props himself up on one elbow, using his other hand to touch his lip, which is split and bleeding. He removes his hand to see there’s blood on it, and reaches into this pocket, pulling out a tissue. He presses the tissue to his lip with a wince, and looks back up at John, completely defeated.

John stands, panting through clenched teeth, and stares daggers back at Sherlock. The store around them is a disaster of knocked over displays, books, and tables, as well as very confused patrons and very angry staff.

Sherlock slowly pushes himself upright just as the store manager begins his own stream of curses at both of them, but mostly at John. Someone from the crowd tries to help Sherlock up, but he shoos them away. Finally getting his feet under him, he gingerly palpates his face, taking stock of the various injuries, only then realising the presence of a sprained finger.

“Alright,” demands a man who John recognises to be the store owner and manager, Toby. “I need someone to explain to me what the _hell_ is going on here, right bloody _now_!” his voice thundering from his barrel-shaped chest. “I have a right mind to call the police on you, John, but you’ve been a pretty decent bloke up until this point, so I’m going to give you one chance, _and only one_ ,” he emphasises, “to convince me why I shouldn’t.”

Sherlock and John both stand there, not looking at anything except each other, still panting from the exertion of their fight. There’s a murmur from the crowd, who stare at the two disheveled men standing before them.

“John! Oi!” Toby snaps his fingers to try and get John’s attention. “You want to explain to me who this man is that you seem so eager to beat the living daylights out of?”

“This man…” John starts to say, before stopping. He squeezes his eyes shut, and drops his head, shaking it once before looking back up at Sherlock. “This man… is Sherlock Holmes.” He’s not surprised to hear the weariness and disbelief present in his own voice. Part of him still doesn’t believe this is really happening.

There is a renewed din and gasps in the audience as people take to their mobiles to spread the news that Sherlock Holmes is alive. It will be worldwide knowledge in a matter of minutes.

The manager looks on in blank disbelief. This was the last thing he was expecting to hear, apparently. “Sherlock Holmes? You mean that consulting detective bloke from your book?”

“The very same,” John replies dryly.

“I thought he died. Committed suicide by swan diving off the rooftop of that teaching hospital, but now you’re telling me that’s not the case?” Toby’s anger is quickly mounting.

“Apparently not.” John is beginning to seethe again.

Sherlock remains silent. Listening to everything that’s being said, but not daring to open his mouth for fear of making things worse... As if they could even get any worse at this point.

“Oh, so, what, you two planned this little scuffle as some sort of, what, publicity stunt, then?”

John shakes his head, snarling at Sherlock. He can see where this is going, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

“Not selling enough books, eh? Well, don’t worry John, because I’m sure your fans here will spread the word about your little stunt. It might increase your sales, but don’t expect this shop to sell another one of your books, or host anymore of your signings. You’re done here,” Toby retorts, slashing through the air with his hand.

John is starting to get his breath back, but has yet to take his eyes off Sherlock. He says nothing to defend himself. Right now, all he can think about is the man who is supposed to be dead and buried, but who now stands here, in front of him, bloody, beaten, _alive_. John looks down at his own knuckles and sees blood on them. Whether it’s his or Sherlock’s he can’t be sure. The adrenaline is still surging through him, and he can’t feel if he’s injured his hands, or any other part of himself, in the scuffle. He flexes his fingers as he amasses every ounce of willpower he can to prevent himself from jumping Sherlock again.

“Now, get the hell out of my shop before I call the police!” Toby yells with frothing indignation, the spit flying from his mouth as he enunciates his words. He points heatedly from John to the exit, as if to drive home finality and seriousness of his demands. “And expect a bill for the damages.”

John takes a moment to compose himself as best he can in this disheveled state. He curtly nods his head, taking one last look at the audience that has gathered around them. It’s much larger than the one  initially present for the signing. He feels the adrenaline start to leave his system. “Right then. Thanks for coming. And sorry about the mess,” his tone is obviously sarcastic. There’s certainly much more professional things he could have said, and he’ll no doubt be hearing about this later from Mary, but right now he just doesn’t care. John turns, picks his jacket up from where it lays crumpled on the floor, and walks briskly towards the exit, passing Sherlock on his way, but not pausing to acknowledge him.

Sherlock continues to stand there for a moment, still holding the tissue to his face, unsure of what to do. He looks around to see everyone starting at him. This is not the way it was supposed to turn out at all. He never intended to cause John more pain and trouble. He has nothing to lose at this point, and decides to follow after John. “Uh, books are on me,” he says as he gathers up his winter clothing, following hastily in the direction John headed.

He finds John standing on the main road, just outside the shop. He thinks maybe John is trying to hail a cab, but instead he sees John is just standing there, his hands in the pockets, staring ahead.

Sherlock puts on his jacket, hat, and scarf, shielding himself against the cold. Snow is beginning to fall - large flakes that drift down heavily through the air. Sherlock watches them land on John’s shoulders, contrasted boldly against his black jacket. His weather app had warned of a heavy downfall starting late in the afternoon, promising to dump over 30 centimeters before morning, if the prediction is to be believed.

It’s only now, seeing John in the natural light, that Sherlock notices how haggard he looks - his face and flecks of grey hairs mixed in with his usual dull blond show him as having aged disproportionately to the time Sherlock’s been gone. They stand there on the pavement, awkwardly, a significant distance between them. Although physically close for the first time in years, Sherlock still feels as though he is as far from John as when he was away. He dares to look over - not directly, just a side glance - and sees that John is still staring ahead, as if he hasn’t noticed Sherlock’s presence, his face showing anger and resignation as he tries to process what has just happened. Sherlock desperately searches his mind for something to do, to say, something to _fix this_. He’s always been able to count on his mind - all these years spent away, all the plans, the missions, everything had succeeded because of his ability to think, to solve, to act and adapt to things, whatever was thrown at him, but this -this was not something he was prepared for handling. _Emotions_. Maybe if he had anticipated this as a possible outcome he could have prepared for it, but he didn’t even possess the foresight to predict that John would react in such a way.

John isn’t saying anything, or doing anything. Sherlock assumes that whatever John wants right now, it likely involves being as far away from this place (and possibly Sherlock) as he can get, so he flags down a cab. 


	2. Chapter 2

When the cab pulls up to the kerb, Sherlock opens the door, wordlessly offering John the chance to get in first. He’s still avoiding direct eye contact and behaving submissively, hoping John can see how desperately sorry he is for what’s happened. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

John turns his head and looks at Sherlock. There’s contempt in his countenance, but also something else. Something Sherlock can’t place. John doesn’t move from where he stands, and for a moment Sherlock thinks he won’t actually get in.

“Hey! I don’t got all day. Either get in or close the door. You’re lettin’ all the heat out,” the cab driver shouts, completely indifferent to the rudeness of his tone.

“Would you hold on just a bloody-!” John starts to shout, but immediately stops himself. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes and counts backwards from five in his head. He’s only just started to simmer down, and his fuse is still short. After what happened today, he’s lucky Toby is letting him off with a mere banning and bill for damages. He can’t afford to piss anyone else off.

The cabbie is unphased by John’s snapped retort. He continues his silent wait as the cab idles in the cold.

John brings himself back under control, and gets into the vehicle. He looks Sherlock in the eyes for the first time since leaving the shop. “Get in. You’re coming with me.” It’s not a question.

Sherlock is caught completely off-guard by John’s reaction for the second time that day. Right now nothing is more important than appeasing John, so he gets in without thought or question.

John gives an address to the driver, but Sherlock barely hears it. He’s so far into his head that the world around him sounds distant and static. Nothing more than white-noise. But he doesn’t care right now. He’s so desperate for information that will help him figure out what to do about his current situation, but his mind is completely devoid of anything useful, and he’s already proven to himself that his gut reactions only serve to make things worse.

They sit in awkward silence, on opposite ends of the cab, as if trying to put as much physical space between each other as possible.

Sherlock glances out of the corner of his eye to see John staring out the window.

Nothing is said for the entire journey. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock watches the snow as it falls on London, on its buildings and its citizens. It gently drifts down, the bone-white powder covering all the blemishes of the city like a mask. A calming, meditative ambience, falling over a city that is anything but. Sherlock has certainly seen snow during his time away, but this snow is different. This snow is falling on London, and to Sherlock, anything to do with London is instantly preferable to anything else.

The falling snow provides only a momentary distraction from the present situation, as Sherlock eventually catches John’s reflection in the window of the cab, and his mind comes crashing back to the events that lead up to this point; the events that put him in a cab with John Watson, unsure of their destination, and what will happen when they get there. _How could he be so stupid as to confront John in the way he did? How is he ever going to make this right?_

Sherlock may be home, but he still feels as lost as ever.

\-------------

The cab comes to a rather abrupt halt, and Sherlock is roused from his thoughts. His mind races to catch up with his current situation as he waits for something to happen, hoping to be struck with some epiphany as to his next move.

John opens the door and exits the cab. He circles around, and, not seeing Sherlock moving to follow him, opens his door. “We’re here. Get out,” John says in a short, flat tone, and again, he isn’t asking.

Sherlock quickly gets out, feeling a bit too much like a man on his way to his own execution. He can practically feel the hostility radiating from John, and it’s greatly inhibiting his ability to predict what John will do next. His brow furrowed, and more disoriented and unsure of himself than he can ever recall being while in London, Sherlock takes in his surroundings. He was too lost in his own head to pay attention to the route during the journey, and he doesn’t immediately recognise where he is. Adding to that, his new-found unfamiliarity with the city - a result of his extended time away. His sense of direction is in serious need of refreshing. He recalls hearing a snippet of the address John had given the driver. Something about Alexander? Not an area of the city - at least not one he can recall - so probably the name of a street, then. At that moment, he hears a large commercial aeroplane, and looks up to see it flying low overhead, preparing to land at Heathrow airport to the west of them. They’re in Hounslow, then. Alexander street in Hounslow.

Sherlock looks to see that John is already at the front door of a flat. He’s digging through his pockets for what Sherlock assumes to be his keys, in that unfamiliar way of someone who can’t find what they’re looking for. Sherlock cringes internally at the possibility that they somehow got lost at the shop during the scuffle, and now currently reside in store’s lost-and-found bin. John’s impatience is quickly growing, and he huffs with irritation and mild incredulity as he checks the pockets of his jeans and jacket. Sherlock closes the cab door and is about to walk towards John when he hears a voice.

“Hey!” the driver shouts. “One of you owe me sixteen pounds, eighty for the ride.”

“Pay him, Sherlock,” John says in a stern tone, not looking up from his search. He reaches his hand into an inside pocket of his jacket, and to his great relief, his fingers feel the familiar collection of keys.

Sherlock watches John, dreading what he’s about to say. “I-” his voice is scratchy and barely audible. He clears his throat before trying again. “I… don’t have any cash on me.” Sherlock cringes to hear the words come out of his mouth. As if he wasn’t feeling guilty enough for the incident at the bookshop, and now he’s letting John down again. Twice in less than two hours that he’s been ‘back’. If he wants any chance of making amends with John, he needs to do a lot better.

John unlocks the door, then turns to look at him. Sherlock can see that he’s angry and annoyed, but not at all surprised by Sherlock’s words, and it’s at that realisation, that John isn’t even surprised by his letdowns, that he begins to feel like maybe this was all a bad idea afterall. But there’s nothing he can do about it now, except try and limit any further damage.

“Metre’s still runnin’. My time ain’t free, you know,” the cabbie says, as if reminding them that he’s still there.

“Yes, alright!” John snaps. He huffs, shaking his head at Sherlock. He walks briskly to the window of the cab, and takes out his wallet.

“I’m sorry, John. I used the last bit of cash I had on me to buy your book,” Sherlock words are rushed and pleading, as if speaking them will somehow relieve him of his mounting guilt. Only then does he realise he doesn’t even have the book with him. It’s probably still among the mess they left behind at the book shop. He makes a fleeting glance at John, still seeing nothing but anger and annoyance on his face. Why did John bring him here? At this point Sherlock strongly suspects it’s to finish him off without interruption. He certainly looks angry enough.

John hands over the cash. “Keep the change,” he says, making no acknowledgement of Sherlock as he turns around and heads back to the door.

“Thanks, mate,” the driver replies out of reflex, but John doesn’t hear him.

Sherlock remains standing on the pavement as the cab drives off. He still holds a handkerchief to his bleeding lip.

John opens the door to the flat. He looks back over his shoulder, seeing Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, looking for all the world like a child who's lost his mum at the supermarket. “Hurry up,” he says, impatient and irritated.

Without hesitation, Sherlock follows. They enter the flat, and John closes the door behind them

The first thing Sherlock notices about this flat, is the smell. It smells much newer, cleaner… _something_. Whatever it is, it’s as close to the exact opposite of Baker Street as Sherlock thinks a smell can get. And the colour - where Baker Street’s walls are dark and earthy in colour, these walls are light and neutral. The words _artificial_ and _cold_ come to Sherlock’s mind, although he’s not sure why. Whatever the reason, it's certainly no Baker Street. John doesn’t belong here.

John stamps the snow off his shoes, and removes his coat, hanging it on a row of hooks mounted on the wall near the base of the stairs. After a moments hesitation, Sherlock follows suit.

“Upstairs. Come on,” John again orders as he ascends the flight. The layout of this flat is quite similar to that of Baker Street, and Sherlock suspects John’s flat is on the first floor. Sherlock subconsciously counts the stairs as they ascend. To his great amusement he finds there to be 17 of them. He catches himself smiling. _At least something is right in this dreadful place._

John opens the door to his flat, and they both enter. Sherlock is met with a room that, despite its tiny size, still manages to look sparse in its pragmatic furnishings. It’s a bit messy, but nothing that’s been left untidy for more than a day or two. Certainly nothing close to the level of mess Sherlock often made at Baker Street. Whilst it has all the trappings of a well-used flat, there are no dishes in the sink, and nothing but the odd, current paper or magazine on the bare surfaces. The tidiness is artificial in that nothing's been moved in the first place. It reminds Sherlock more of an impersonally made display, rather than a properly lived-in home.

One corner has a few boxes of equal dimensions and newness, and Sherlock observes they’re from a publishing company - freshly printed copies of John’s book, then. He suspects the boxes serve the dual purpose of housing books, as well as lessening the emptiness of the room with their presence. Aside from that, the place is almost completely devoid of anything personal, save for John’s regimental mug, which sits on a desk next to a closed laptop. The place lacks the characteristics of a home, and Sherlock suspects John hasn’t felt ‘at home’ since leaving Baker Street. Initially, Sherlock had only weighed his own personal losses against what he would be accomplishing during his time away, thinking it to be well-worth the sacrifices he would be making, but now that he’s back, he’s realising he isn’t the only one whose world changed forever that day. He starts to stack all that he’s accomplished, against all that he’s lost, and all that John seems to have lost. He suspects that the scales shifted out of his favour long ago, he just hasn’t realised to what extent yet.

Sherlock stands apprehensively at the door. He looks around, as if waiting for a cue of some kind - something to tell him what to do next. Should he wander around? Sit? Try to start a conversation? What would he even say to John right now? John seems preoccupied at the moment, anyway, as he moves about the flat, determined to get done whatever task it is he’s set himself to. Sherlock thinks he should feel welcome here, in John’s home, but he doesn’t. John radiates an air of irritability and hostility, and Sherlock suddenly knows the true meaning of the metaphor ‘walking on eggshells’. He feels like he’ll have to do just that if he wants to avoid setting him off again. Instead he just stands there awkwardly, waiting for something to happen.

At the moment, John is in another room, and Sherlock can hear the clamour as he endeavours to dig something out of a closet or storage space. Finally, he emerges, walking back into the sitting room, holding between his hands a rather large medical kit. John grabs the wooden chair that sits at his desk, and turns to walk back down the hall. “Come on. In here,” he says without breaking his gait. His tone is much less demanding this time, but Sherlock still follows without hesitation.

John walks to the end of the short hallway, the medical kit in one hand, and the chair dragging along behind him. The light from the hall streams into the bathroom, allowing him to see as he sets the chair on the floor, facing the toilet, and the medical kit on the counter by the sink. He turns to flick the bathroom light on, and looks back at Sherlock.

“Sit,” he tells him, motioning to the chair behind him. His tone is still stern, but softer now.

Sherlock flits past John, lowering himself into the wooden chair as John opens the medical kit and begins to methodically take stock of its contents. He shuffles them around, making sure everything he’ll need is there. The room is quiet but for the sounds of paper and plastic wrapping, and the creak of wood as Sherlock shifts nervously in the chair.

Sherlock keeps his gaze straight ahead, sitting rigidly upright in his seat, one hand holding the tissue to his face, and other resting stiffly in his lap, the sprained finger throbbing in rhythm with his pounding heart.

Eventually, John stops what he knows to be superfluous checking of the kit, and leans heavily on the counter, bracing himself with his arms spread wide. Sherlock hears him exhale, the sound loud against the silence and amplified by the acoustics of the bathroom. Watching John from the corner of his eye, Sherlock wonders if his heart is really beating as loud as he thinks it is.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” John begins, turning his head to give Sherlock a side-long glance. “I’m going to examine you and patch up whatever well-deserved damage I’ve managed to inflict,” he says as he straightens up, taking a pair of medical gloves from the kit and begins to put them on. He pauses and looks straight at Sherlock, who in turn, slowly turns his head to meet John’s gaze before the doctor continues, “and you are going to tell me what the _bloody hell_ is going on.” John’s words are at a volume that’s quiet, measured, and more forceful than normal conversation, and there’s a level of demand in the tone that tells Sherlock he doesn’t have much choice in the matter. Sherlock knows he has a lot of explaining to do.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, before Sherlock nods ever so slightly, dropping his eyes and resigning his gaze back down in submission.

“Good,” John says. He takes a seat on the closed lid of the toilet. “Take these,” he hands Sherlock two paracetamol pills and a glass of water, and waits while Sherlock takes them. He clears his throat. “Okay,” John goes into doctor mode as he recalls basic exam procedures in his head. “Alright, Sherlock. Any dizziness? Double-vision? Spots? Headache? Nausea?”

“No.” Sherlock’s answer is quick and sharp, as he sits rigid and tense in the chair.

“Relax, Sherlock. I’m not going to hurt you anymore, but I do need to make sure what I did manage to do isn’t serious. Any pain in your neck?” John asks as he palpates Sherlock’s throat.

“Only from where you attempted to strangle me. But I’m sure it’s nothing,” Sherlock says with an air of acerbic alacrity.

John sighs, rolling his eyes at Sherlock’s petulance. “Yeah, well, maybe if you weren’t such a dickhead about the whole thing. Put your head down,” John says as he parts Sherlock’s hair, looking for bumps or breaks in the skin. He’s never trusted Sherlock to be completely honest with him when it comes to injuries to his ‘transport’, and he’s not about to start now. “Did you honestly think that was going to go any different than it did? Three years, Sherlock. Three bloody years…” John sighs again.

Sherlock feels him stop examining, and watches John’s sock-clad feet sliding nervously on the bathroom floor. “I… I realise now, that it was a poor choice of ways to let you know I’m still alive.”

“‘ _A poor choice_ ’. You’re damn right it was _a poor choice_ ,” John says as he applies an alcohol pad to a wound. Sherlock isn’t prepared, and reacts outwardly, making a hissing noise through clenched teeth and pulling away. “Stay still, would you?” John holds Sherlock’s head steady with one hand, angling it to the light. “You know, for all your brilliance, you really can be astonishingly oblivious at times,” John scolds, taking a small amount of pleasure in the pain he caused to Sherlock.

“You are aware of your hippocratic oath, aren’t you John? Isn’t there something in there about ‘do no harm?” Sherlock asks, sarcastically. “Although considering what happened at the shop I suppose-”

“I wasn’t a doctor when I was at the shop. And my hand slipped,” John cuts Sherlock off, with just as much sarcasm underlying his own voice. He gives Sherlock one of his trademark looks that warns of more pain if he doesn’t behave himself. “Alright, doesn’t look like either of us managed to crack open that big head of yours on the floor.” John reaches up to the counter, taking a penlight in his hand. “Follow my finger,” John says as he holds the pen to each of Sherlock’s eyes in turn, moving his finger for Sherlock to follow, checking for appropriate reactions. “Reaction times look good. I think you managed to avoid a concussion.” John moves on to examining Sherlock’s face. Both his cheeks show evidence of glancing blows. Luckily John was far too frantic and Sherlock far too defensive for any of his blows to be completely accurate. John presses Sherlock’s face gently. “Bruised… but I don’t think anything’s broken.” He palpitates Sherlock’s jaw, and doesn’t get a visceral reaction, and so assumes nothing’s broken there, either. He opens a few more alcohol wipes, using them to clean the spots of broken skin, and this time Sherlock is ready for it.

“If the manager… what’s his name-,” Sherlock asks.

“Toby.”

“Toby… If Toby hadn’t stopped you when he did, would you really have thrown that last punch?”

John sighs. “No, I mean, probably not. You have to understand, Sherlock, I was really very angry at the time… and I still am,” he shakes his head. “But no. I don’t think I would have done it.” John sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself more than Sherlock, and he finds that he’s wondering at the truth of his answer. “Anything else hurt?” John asks. The question comes out automatically - a result of his autopilot procedure at the surgery and his need to change the subject from his own violent tendencies. He fully expects that if Sherlock has any other injuries, he won’t admit to them.

“No. I think that’s about all the damage you managed to cause.”

“Nice try, but I was there, remember? I may have been bordering on a blind fury, but I recall aiming my attacks at more than just your face.” John leans back, taking stock of Sherlock, and notices his left hand. “Here, now,” John says as he takes Sherlock’s left hand, examining the swollen ring finger. “Can you bend it?”

Sherlock gingerly bends his finger. Just sprained, then. John pokes at it a bit more before he’s satisfied with the diagnosis. “Well, no one’s going to be putting a ring on that finger for  a while,” he looks up at Sherlock, smiling in his attempt to lighten the atmosphere. Sherlock merely rolls his eyes. “But it should heal fine.” John gets up from where he sits, and digs around in the kit for a finger split and tape.

The conversation dies again, and Sherlock finds the air of ‘elephant in the room’ to be maddening.

“So,” John says, and his voice almost startles Sherlock. “Are you going to tell me about where you’ve been all this time, or do I have to beat it out of you?” John looks at Sherlock. It’s an empty threat of the type of humour typical to their relationship, but John’s eyes are pleading. He needs to know. He sits back down, taking Sherlock’s hand, and carefully places the splint over his finger, taping it in place. John looks at Sherlock again, and realises how utterly defeated he looks. He sees all the bruises that are starting to show, each scrape and bit of broken skin, and he begins to feel bad for what he did, the guilt slowly creeping in. Luckily everything seems to be superficial, and nothing is serious enough to require stitches.

Sherlock sighs resignedly. If he has to tell John about where he’s been all this time, he’s determined to do it in as brief an account as possible. There’s a lot of details he’s not ready to tell John yet. Sherlock begins by explaining how he and Mycroft had come up with the plan together, and how Mycroft had helped him remotely. He avoids any mention of Molly’s role.

“Okay, so you were away on some, what, missions?”

“Missions, yes. Taking down various criminal networks to slowly and methodically dismantle Moriarty’s web. The smaller networks are the moorings onto which the bigger networks rest. Take out the smaller ones, and the large ones lose support - contacts, runners, safe-houses, everything they rely on in order to function. Once those resources are gone, the bigger networks become weak, vulnerable, much easier to take down.”

John looks at Sherlock, as if angry at how casual he’s is being about the whole thing. The air of nonchalance and the downplaying, as if he was simply off on some vacation or business trip.

“It was nothing, John. Simply errands. _Leg work_.”

“Errands. Okay, so why wasn’t I invited on your _errands_ , then?”

“It wasn’t your fight, John.”

“Oh, and like that’s ever stopped us before?” John knows it can’t be as simple as all this. There’s got to be more to it, more that Sherlock isn’t telling him.

They both know John isn’t buying it, but there’s nothing to be done. If John presses Sherlock on it, it will make him more reluctant to talk, and push him away. So he doesn’t press the issue. All he can do is be supportive, and hope Sherlock will tell him in his own time.

“Right. Okay,” John says, letting Sherlock know he’ll settle for what he knows to be a completely rubbish answer. For now, anyway.

Sherlock turns away from John, and in the light John catches a glimpse of another scrape he’d missed in his initial exam. He takes hold of Sherlock’s face, angling it again so the light shines on the spot. He hopes it to be the last wound in need of treatment, but he isn’t counting on it. He presses the alcohol pad to it, swiping it to wipe the dried blood away. Sherlock hisses again and tries to pull away. “Hey, hold still,” John scolds for the second time that afternoon. “What happened to this just being your ‘transport’?” John smirks at Sherlock. Sherlock smiles back. The mood is suddenly lighter, as if a weight has been lifted off of them.

They’re both quiet, enjoying the silence that is no longer awkward or unwelcome. For the moment, it’s just like old times. Those days and nights that seem so long ago now, spent in the bathroom of 221B, patching each other up after criminal chases or other often illegal shenanigans, while the post-case adrenaline still provided a modicum of pain relief. All in the name of solving the cases. It’s just like old times That is, until John makes a discovery while examining Sherlock’s ribs.


End file.
